


Blood Sticks, Sweat Drips

by pterodactylichexameter



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Smut, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:05:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8814454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactylichexameter/pseuds/pterodactylichexameter
Summary: Nessian smut week: Angry Sex (feat. bilingual Cassian) 
 
“Wha--” he starts, snarling, but she’s just yanking him around by his arm to examine the larger bandage on his wing, and she can see another place that’s bruised and--
She runs her finger over it, not bothering to be gentle. “This is what happens, Cassian, don’t be a prick when--” 
But then he’s turning around, almost clipping her with his wing, and walking into her, sending her stumbling, so her back hits the wall.





	

As soon as Nesta realizes he’s gone, she’s throwing curses down the bond, berating him at first, screaming the foulest words she knows because  _ he promised he would stay home _ . She doesn’t receive anything back, just the barest indication that he’s heard her, that he’ll be back in two days and he’ll be fine. 

But that doesn’t mean she’s not fuming in their house in Velaris, sitting at home and feeling useless. If she knew what camp he was going to, she would make Mor winnow her there, track him down, and drag him home, but she doesn’t even know which camp and--

Two days ago when he said he needed to go inspect one of the older camps that seemed to be relapsing to their old ways, giving male soldiers the advantage and refusing to train the women, she flat out told him that no, he wasn’t going. She understands what he does is important, that things like this come up, but someone else can go, someone who can winnow there instead of flying. Although his wings are technically healed, he still has his good and bad days. Good and bad weeks, more of. 

But only a few days before, thanks to a training accident where Rhys caught him off guard and he fell wrong on his wing, it’s taking longer than usual to repair itself, raw and bruised, and Cassian is . . . stubborn when it comes to these matters.

He can be a big baby bat as far as she’s concerned, but when it comes to actually admitting that he’s injured? Forget it.

Rhys admitted to her once that Cassian went a whole week with a broken arm during their training just so he wouldn’t have to rest or miss any drills.  In the end, they had to refracture the bone to properly set it, and it only caused him more pain and more down time than he needed before.

Not much has changed.

She suspects him to fight her insistence that he doesn’t go to the camp. She’s ready to tear down his usual arguments (No, he really isn’t fine, he needs rest), offer a replacement (ask Rhys to go instead?), even bribe him (I’ll get out that set of black lingerie you almost tore off of me last time?), but everything only sets him firmer in his decision.

Cauldron damn anything that Cassian deems his duty. 

Eventually, their argument settled into him grudgingly admitting that if his wings are hurting the morning he’s supposed to leave, then he’ll stay home. 

The thing is. . . she doesn’t actually expect him to go  _ without saying anything _ . She can handle the arguing about it. Can prepare points that will make him consider it, will make him think about himself for once, take  _ care  _ of himself. 

She isn’t expecting him to just  _ go _ .

So when she wakes that morning and finds the bed next to her empty, she thinks he’s already up, making breakfast probably, but the house is entirely silent. And after she storms through the rooms, disappointment and worry twisting in her gut, she tears back upstairs, yanking open the wardrobe and sorting quickly through it until she finds his flying leathers gone. 

That’s when the curses start because  _ Cauldron damn him _ how could he be so stupid? How could he just  _ leave _ and not even bother to tell her and. . .  She knows his damn wings are hurting and he just left--

The threats continue for at least the next half an hour and she knows he gets them, can feel them bruising the other side of the bond as he takes them, one after the other.

After she’s calmed down enough to head off to the lunch she’d promised to have with Feyre, she gets a perfectly composed response. That he’ll be back the next afternoon and he’ll be fine. 

_ Fine _ .

She still throws a mental rude gesture back and slams up the walls on her side of the bond. 

The next day and a half is. . . frustrating.  It hurts more that he left without saying anything, as if he was already settled in his decision and didn’t have the energy to deal with arguing with her. She can deal with him being a stubborn male (she’s more than used to that), but she isn’t prepared for him not listening to her entirely, even when she has a perfectly valid point. 

She tosses and turns all night, cursing the empty bed next to her and flat out refusing to turn a pillow sideways and sleep on it the way she usually sleeps on her mate. She won’t give him the satisfaction of missing him.

So the next day, when she’s out all morning and afternoon at the meetings she took his place in (a common undertaking now), and she comes back to find him sitting at the kitchen table, finishing the report from his inspections, she pauses in the door. 

There’s the relief at seeing him home and she can’t help but snap a quick eye over his wings, making sure he’s all in one piece. 

He glances up, sees her standing there and his eyes soften slightly.

She stiffens.

“Nesta--” 

She turns on her heel, lurching right past him to head up the stairs. Her chest aches and her throat is suddenly tight, but damn if she doesn’t want him to hurt the way he hurt her.

The chair scrapes over the floor when he pushes it back and she hears him following her.

“Nesta, you know I had to go,” he says from the foot of the stairs, pleading her to understand.

Oh she understands. She understands that his pig-headed stubbornness puts his duty in the way of his own health and safety. 

“I have nothing to say to you,” she only replies coldly, continuing.

Her name, a bit harsher this time, but she doesn’t stop, reaching the landing and heading down the hall.

He’s taking the stairs two at a time, following again. “Would you please just be reasonable?” 

She stops at that, turns in the threshold of the door to their room. “ _ I’m _ the one not being reasonable?”

He doesn’t respond, and the anger, the frustration and hurt is piling up so quickly she can’t compartmentalize it.

“You can’t just  _ refuse _ to listen to me because you don’t want to hear it.”

“That’s not what--” She can hear his control slipping, see his brow furrowing. He doesn’t want this to be an argument, but it’s past that now.

“You can’t stop what you’re doing for two seconds to think about what would happen if maybe you don’t get better next time. Did you ever consider that?  That maybe if you don’t stop pushing yourself that one of these days you’re not going to heal?” Her eyes flash to the bandages on his wings where he’d hastily tried to cover up the spots that were worn raw.

“I can’t just  _ stop _ what I’m doing to  _ rest _ every time I get a few scrapes,” he growls, finally advancing on her even though she holds her position in the door, arm braced on the wall. 

“If you dare pull the commander card,” she spits out but he’s continuing, talking over her, and it’s just a mess, really. She’s screaming at him about getting hurt and what the fuck is she going to do if he doesn’t come back? What’s he going to do if maybe his wings don’t heal this time and--

He’s telling her that it’s not his fault that she gets worried he does what he has to do, what he needs to do. He doesn’t get to choose where he goes and so what if he left without saying goodbye, they were just going to fight anyway.

“Wha--” he starts, snarling, but she’s just yanking him around by his arm to examine the larger bandage on his wing, and she can see another place that’s bruised and--

She runs her finger over it, not bothering to be gentle. “This is what happens, Cassian, don’t be a prick when--” 

But then he’s turning around, almost clipping her with his wing, and walking into her, sending her stumbling, so her back hits the wall. 

“Don’t touch them,” he snarls, wings flaring out behind him in his anger. 

But she just looks him straight in the eye, frowning, anger pulsing thickly through the bond. If he won’t listen to her, then there’s no reason for her to listen to him either, so she reaches over his shoulder to grab the wing joint connecting them to his back, tense and thick with muscle.

“What? Do they  _ hurt _ ?” she snaps back, digging her nails in slightly.

His hips jolt into hers and that’s when she feels him, already hard and pressing into her stomach. “ _ Sweetheart _ \--” 

The way he says it has heat flooding through her, the line between anger and arousal blurring. He growls out the name, low in his throat, and it’s exactly how he’d said it when he’d done it to get a rise out of her, harsh and a warning instead of the comfort that it usually is now.  But the combination of him hard against her stomach, that she can feel his hot arousal through the bond, and the way he’s looking at her, like he can’t decide between yelling at her and kissing her, has a low throb pulsing between her thighs.

It’s hard to remember for a moment, why they’re here, why she wants to pummel some sense into him and why she  _ shouldn’t _ want to kiss him.  

But she  _ does _ . Wants his tongue in her mouth and his hands roaming over her body, claiming her with that same ferocity he says that name. 

This time when she rubs over his wing, he snarls, grasping her arm, but she strokes again, firmer, in a way meant to solely arouse. And she prods him through the bond,  _ dares _ him to break the distance between them. 

His eyes are fastened to her lips and he pushes back through the bond, that raw need, how much he wants his cock in her. How much he wants to listen to the sounds she’ll make when he slides into her for the first time.  

Nesta lets out a growl, nudging slightly forward, and that’s all he needs before he pounces on her, hand cupping the back of her neck and pulling her mouth up to meet his.  It’s as much of an argument as their words were, sending him growling when she bites his bottom lip, teeth clacking together as his body pushes her harder against the wall. 

She can barely breathe, barely think as she reaches between them, tugging hard at his belt until it comes loose.  The only thought in her mind, beating through her body, urges for his hands on her, body against hers.  A noise escapes with her breath, through the kiss. “I want you in me,” she murmurs, finally managing his belt with clumsy, too eager fingers. 

“Of course you do,” he snarls, satisfied, and she doesn’t even want to prove him wrong.  He’s rucking her skirt up around her hips until her legs are bare and he can reach between them to shove her underwear down far enough for her to wiggle out of them. Nothing is fast enough, hard enough, and she’s already panting through their sloppy kiss when he hoists her up, a hand under each thigh.

She tears at the laces of his leathers, fumbling with them until she can shove the fabric down low enough to bring him out, give him a few pumps. Her leg hitches over his waist when he reaches between down between her legs, fingers slipping easily through her slick folds, wet enough that a low rumble of satisfaction sounds in his throat.

His name comes out with her breath, desperate, and she grasps his shoulders, head falling back against the wall, because he’s nudging into her before pushing his hips the rest of the way forward, sliding in. “Cassian--” she manages to get out, hand winding through his hair, pulling his head down to her throat where he presses open-mouthed kisses against her skin, sucking just under her jaw.  _ Fuck _ , it’s overwhelming all at once. She’s aroused but she hasn’t had his mouth on her or his fingers in her and he feels  _ tight _ filling her.

It’s all she can do to hold onto him, nothing to push back against with him pinning her to the wall.  He’s panting against her skin, wings flaring wide behind him, tense as he thrusts into her, again and again and again to the point where she can’t think about anything but him, the heat of his skin against hers, the way he fits in her, his breath washing over her throat. 

Cassian groans out her name, hips snapping into hers. There’s nothing hesitant about this, no sense that they need to take things slow, tease each other. It’s all hard and fast and the more noise she makes, the more he gives her until she’s clawing over the leathers covering his tense shoulders, nails scraping against his scalp with every motion against her. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, brow wrinkling, “Cassian, Cass-- I need, I just need--” 

Before she can even finish, he’s reaching between her thighs, sliding over in quick circles and she shudders against him, rising faster and faster.

“Cassian--” she moans again, longer this time because she’s so close and he’s relentless, inside her, against her, hard body pressing into hers. She can’t even remember why she was so angry with him, just that she needs him here with her.

She comes against his fingers, tightening around him, whimpering when he doesn’t slow, even when she’s flushed and panting and trembling against him. He’s sweating in his leathers, she can tell, the back of his neck damp, and her fingers tighten and loosen in his hair. 

She’s still quivering and sensitive, but he only growls, still moving in her, because she might have come, but she’s not done. 

He withdraws his hand for a moment, giving her time to recover even with the dizzying feel of him still thrusting into her. The breathy murmur of his voice at her neck has her vaguely aware of him cursing in Illyrian against her skin.

_ Fuck _ . She shudders against him, whimpering at the sound of his voice, guttural and thick with muddled words she’s only just beginning to understand. He rarely speaks in his native tongue when they’re together, but when he does. . .

Nesta digs her heels into his ass, urging him closer.  She just wants  _ more _ .  More of him, harder, talking to her in Illyrian until she’s coming around his cock. 

“Cassian,” she murmurs, through a whine, raking her nails through his hair. 

He’s bent over her, face pressed into the bend of her shoulder and says something else, that she barely catches, another curse sprawled between words she doesn’t recognize. 

She moans--pants--louder as he keeps talking. He seems to put two and two together and doesn’t question it, only speaking faster, more fluidly as he keeps his steady pace in her, growing erratic with more and more of the noises she’s making. She’s loud, she knows she’s loud, but she doesn’t care.

The words seems to grate against her skin, jolting straight through her, like she can’t breathe around the sound of them. It takes everything in her to hold onto him, but then he’s nipping at her ear, hand sinking between them again, and she understands what he’s saying even when she doesn’t understand the words:  _ Come for me, Sweetheart _ .

Her breath sticks in her throat, mouth open, head fallen back as her climax tears through her.  It’s too much, too much, with his hands on her and his voice low and rough in her ear as he guides her through it. 

A few strokes later and he lets out a slow breath against her neck through a groan, hips slowing, rolling against hers through his climax.  

By the time he stops, she’s entirely limp against him, held up only with his body pressing hers into the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist and arms over his shoulders. Through his leathers she can feel his shoulders tight with the effort of holding her up.

Neither of them say anything for a moment, still recovering, but then Nesta draws her fingers lightly through his hair, and gently guides his face up to kiss him. Slow and long and sweet, her apology in the way her lips move against his, thumb stroking his cheek. 

He pauses for a moment against her, tracing his palm up her side, down, up again, soothing.

“You know,” he murmurs against her lips, drawing back slightly, “This doesn’t mean that I won’t go next time. I don’t have a choice.”

Nesta’s fingers card through the hair at the back of his neck, where it curls at the collar of his shirt.  “I don’t give a shit about the camps,” she says quietly, firmly.  “If something happens to you--”

“It won’t,” he only says firmly and presses a kiss to her forehead, to the frustrated line between her brows.

“That’s not how the world works, Cassian.”  

He says something then, in Illyrian, and she just stares at him firmly until he translates. “It’s how the Illyrian world does.”

But she pauses, takes a moment to let her forehead drop down against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him.  The anxiety that had been building over the past few days slips with him against her. It doesn’t fade entirely, because she knows he’ll go again, but for now, having him safe and in her arms is enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments give me life!!
> 
> Come join me in my trashcan on [tumblr](http://pterodactylichexameter.tumblr.com)!


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